


Branded

by Sectumsempra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Branding, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:53:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sectumsempra/pseuds/Sectumsempra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”How would you feel about a new tattoo, my dear?” The way Jim speaks; he sounds like the most polite man in the world, so considerate and <i>soft.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Branded

They're heading down a narrow street when Jim suddenly stops. Sebastian does too, not three full steps later. He's got his eyes on his phone, but always keeps part of his focus on Jim, never quite lets the man out of his peripheral vision.

”Sebastian,” says Jim, ”come back here.”

Sebastian does, turns back, looks up from the text he's been writing. They're standing outside a tattoo parlour – _Ian's Ink_ – and Jim is looking at a sign standing on the street that says that they have drop-in all afternoon.

”How would you feel about a new tattoo, my dear?” The way Jim speaks; he sounds like the most polite man in the world, so considerate and _soft,_ but Sebastian knows exactly what he is really saying; _I want you to get one and if you refuse there is so many amazing ways in which I could convince you anyway._

”You think I need another one?” asks Sebastian, because both his arms are covered shoulder-to-wrist, and he's got five more scattered over the rest of his body. He's spent a considerate amount of time having needles tearing into his skin, the sensation is, by now, as familiar as the one of a trigger under his finger.

Jim grabs his left hand, pulls the sleeve of his leather jacket back, and turns it palm up. He drags his thumb across Sebastian's pulse-point, that sensitive skin on the inside of the wrist, where it so happens he doesn't have any ink. ”Here,” says Jim. ”You've been saving this spot for something special, haven't you?”

It's not a question; it's a suggestion hidden in one, and with Jim, there is little difference between suggestions and demands. Sebastian snorts.

”And what do you presume that'd be?”

”I have an idea. So?”

It's not that Sebastian has no say, it's rather a Pick Your Battles kind of situation, life with Jim, but this – unless Jim is going to suggest something like Sebastian gets his face tattooed, but then as incomplete as Jim's set of marbles may be, _that_ isn't the nature of his crazy – this doesn't even make the list of possible picks.

He's got a lot of new scars since he started working (living) for Jim – some of them aquired on the job, some in Jim's bed, but it's all the same – and so what's another mark, in the great scheme of things.

He shrugs. ”Fine, but I need a smoke.” He pulls the pack out of his pocket, Jim looks content like a well-fed cat.

”I'll wait inside.”

-

As Sebastian enters, the tattoo artist says ”Mister Moran?” and he nods, goes to sit in the chair the man points to.

Jim is in an armchair in the corner, there's a pile of binders and a couple of magazines, one of which he's flipping through without interest.

”You realize thin lines may blur after a few years?” says the artist. Sebastian shrugs out of his jacket.

”Sorry?”

The guy looks at his arms, a brow raised as though he's wondering where the hell he's going to place the tattoo. Sebastian shows him.

”Ah, no newbie I see, but just to be clear. These letters are quite thin, they may become blurred in a few years' time.”

He shows Sebastian the stencil for the tattoo, the mirror image of two letters, both nearly two inches high; a capital J and M. _Fuck me._

”Perhaps make them bigger, then,” says Jim from the corner. ”Bolder.”

”It'd only take a minute to alter the design,” the artist says.

”I'm fine with blurred,” says Sebastian. Then he leans back and rides the endorphine high.

 

Jim, at least, has the decency to pay for him, and they're out of there not thirty minutes later. Sebastian helps himself to another cigarette.

”You're not going soft on me, are you?” he asks.

”Hm?”

”Not the full name? Not even 'property of'?” Sebastian opens his mouth just a bit and lets the smoke drift out. Jim's eyes follows as it rises, pale smoke signals against the darkening skies.

”That'd be... unnecessarily obvious...” Jim drawls.

Sebastian chuckles, smoke pouring out his nose. ”You're telling me that's it? That's why you were so nice as to only insist on the initials? Full of shit, you are.”

Jim chuckles. Like a complacent little boy he sounds, looks, but behind it are _fifty shades of darkness,_ there could be a new trilogy about the two of them, the things they do together -

”The point isn't for others to see or understand, Sebastian...” Jim says, speaks his name like a seduction. ”It's for _you_ to be reminded of it... for the rest of your little life.”

”Well. Considering what I do for a living that might not be a very long time.” He taps his cigarette so the end of it falls off in a sprinkle of ashes. ”And, just for the record... it'd be awfully easy to get it covered up.”

First Jim smiles, wryly in that way of his, then his head follows in a condescending kind of tilt. ”Oh but my dear, we both know you won't.”

”No? And why the fuck is that, _Jimmy_?”

Jim steps in close, enough so that the smoke that has been in Sebastian's lungs is now going to be in his, he breathes just centimeters from Sebastian's lips, and his voice is a soft mumble when he speaks;

”Because you... love... being owned.” Jim's eyes are relentless in his, daring him to blink, daring him to move away – to move in – daring him to protest.

And he means to, God help him he means to, but his mind stumbles and chokes and he hesitates for a second too long and he loses his chance, and Jim hums in the silence. Draws in the second-hand smoke, they breathe poison back and forth, and he doesn't comment on the fact that Sebastian's silence means he agrees, because Jim doesn't fucking need him to agree; he knows, he knows, he knows.


End file.
